


Collected.

by nasty_b0i



Category: The Collector Series (Movies)
Genre: (???), I have no regrets, Kinky, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Shock Collars, dont judge me, this is completely shameless self indulgent fan ficiton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasty_b0i/pseuds/nasty_b0i
Summary: I go ham for The Collector, and I wanted to treat myself with this little thing. Updates will probably be choppy and I am by no means a writer, but if you check it out I hope you go ham, too. This is a story about how my nasty ass gets captured by everyone's favorite asshole and actually reacts like a human being should.





	1. Chapter 1

Crofton had heard about the gruesome murders and kidnappings that had been happening lately, it was pretty hard to avoid when they were all any news channel would talk about. It seemed like every other month or two there was a new and even more horrific crime scene stumbled upon by a mailman or passerby. Some well-off family that had just finished renovating their lovely, secluded home found butchered in sadistic traps, maimed beyond recognition. Definitely what he wanted to start his morning hearing.

Then there was an apparent survivor who had escaped from ‘The Collector’ as he called him, but he was put into hiding quick enough and hasn’t been heard from since. It was pretty interesting to hear what he had to say when he was being interviewed in the hospital though, plus thanks to him a sketch artist was able to give the killer a face; well, a mask. According to the guy, Arkin, he never took it off. It made him look like a Salamander, which brought a guilty chuckle out of Crofton the first time he thought about it.

After noticing that the killer only targeted large structures in relatively secluded areas, he went against any educated thought and decided he wasn’t in danger. Or well, not in as much danger as someone who fit the psycho’s requirements. He lived in a closely knit neighborhood next to a busy street in a relatively small house, equipped with pretty decent security. Crofton decided that going out even less than he already did and maybe carrying a slightly larger pocket knife wouldn’t hurt, though.

This night, however, would require a trip to buy more tea after his usual blend had run out. He cruised steadily down the road in an older car so graciously gifted to him after his uncle had gotten that promotion and could afford something better. But he wasn’t complaining, less money he had to spend and it still ran perfectly fine for the most part. As he got closer to the shop he frequented he became acutely aware of the lack of activity or cars and felt his paranoia begin to climb.

The shop had always been rather out of the way, which he usually appreciated, but now it only helped to reignite his habit of clenching his jaw when stressed. After pulling across the street, Crofton speed walked to the old wood door, glanced cautiously around the dark street, and knocked a few times; the owner lived in the back and it wasn’t too long after closing so he shouldn’t be asleep yet. Mr. Akiyama would always allow a few after-hour pickups depending on the customers, and Crofton was his most regular. He had found the shop by mistake not too soon after moving to his new house when he got lost looking for the local grocer, and now he never bought tea anywhere else.

The kind japanese man approached the door, smiling gently and ushering him inside with a trembling hand. They shared a comfortable silence occasionally broken by light conversation and the sound of tea leaves being ground; something Mr. Akiyama prided himself on was always making his tea fresh and Crofton agreed that it greatly enhanced the quality. Soon enough the tea was neatly packaged and the two bid each other good night.

Stepping into the cold and eerie quiet of the night stripped Crofton of his previous serenity, and he rushed to get back to the safety of his car before any boogeyman could jump out at him. Practically throwing himself into the driver’s seat and locking the door, he sighed and slipped his key into the ignition to retreat back to his favorite corner of the couch and drink his tea in peace. He let out a shrill groan of unhappiness in the back of his throat at the sound of the engine stalling, trying the key a few more times only to grow exceedingly frustrated at the unchanging result. That’s okay, there’s an old library that stays open late, someone with a car is bound to be there to give him a jump.

He reached into his pocket after a while, turning his pocket knife over and over in his hand to calm himself before gripping it tightly. Taking a few more seconds to psych himself up, he exited the car and race walked to the nearby library, not really knowing if he should keep his eyes on his surroundings to spot an ambush or at his feet so he doesn’t faint from fright at the slightest movement in the shadows. Throwing a few shaky glances down the alleys he passed, Crofton eventually reached the back door of the library, knocking feverishly and keeping his back against the old wood. He stumbled backwards trying to steady himself as the door creaked open under his weight, only to fully trip on a wire placed a few feet in.

Before he head the chance to think about the pain in his head or why there was a trip wire in a library, a scream ripped itself from his throat as three spikes shot from the ceiling and came dangerously close to where he now lay. As they slowly retracted he scrambled away and ventured further into the library to yell at whoever thought that was a proper security option (and to get off of the streets). Using the tiny flashlight attached to his keys, Crofton began to navigate the dark hallways of the library, making a quick sweep through each room he came across with the weak beam. The library was once a house owned by some wealthy banker and his family, but after he was arrested for funneling money into his own account the family moved and the current owners bought it.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw someone facing the wall in the third room he checked, and approached them while releasing a chuckle over how strung up he had become over nothing.

“Oh thank God I found you, I was getting really freaked out!! Listen dude my car is stalled down the street can you give me a ju-” As Crofton grabbed the person’s shoulder and turned them around, the metal spike in their forehead that was holding them up dislodged and the corpse fell towards him. The two fell and he let out a strangled gasp, squeezing his eyes shut as stagnant blood splattered onto his face and spilled heavily onto his chest. He quickly shoved the body off and crawled backwards as fast as he could, his eyes locked on the still figure and bordering hyperventilation.

As soon as his back hit the wall he used it to get to his feet and raced out of the room, intent on finding someone living so he wouldn’t have to face that hell alone. As he ran towards the steps to the second floor he made sure to keep his eyes to the floor so he didn’t trigger anything on himself, not terribly eager to meet the same fate as that poor person. After a few close calls and more than a few bruises and scratches, Crofton took the stairs two steps at a time and was more than a little out of breath once he reached the top; the panic didn’t help to steady his heart rate but that’s not important. Thoughts flew by in his mind as he ran towards a door at the end of the hallway with light shining through the cracks, one thought in particular bringing him to a halt as horrifying realization dawned upon him.

A large (former) house, secluded area, deadly traps. Crofton saw his life flash in the back of his mind, but his eyes were frozen on the door at the end of the hallway; specifically the the doorknob that was now turning. Time seemed to slow down as the door opened outwards, and the first thing Crofton noticed was red. The walls, the bookshelves, the floor, even the ceiling, everything that he could see from where he was was bathed in blood. There was a pile of what he realized were humans, although it could also have been mistaken by some sick form of art with the precise ways the mangled limbs were posed. 

The next thing he noticed froze him to his core, too terrified to even tremble as he stared at the black mask he had seen on the news channel. It looked a lot less funny in real life, Crofton decided, and then promptly turned the other way and started back towards the stairs. He barely registered the sound of footsteps behind him, his ears ringing and his mind repeating the same phrase with growing urgency: ‘run. run. Run. Run. Run. RUN. RUN. RUN.’ He was in too much of a panic to see the wire at the bottom that he had missed during his ascent, which when triggered shot a net with weights, bells, and razor wire attached at his ankles. Not expecting the sudden fall, his nose connected harshly with the hardwood floors and left him dazed for a few seconds as he tried to breath around the blood gushing from his nostrils.

He saw the descent of the terrifying man through hazy vision as his brain tried to correct itself, and only when his bound legs were being used to drag him towards the exit did he remember to fight back. Pocket knife forgotten, Crofton squirmed and kicked as best he could in the madman’s grip, trying to grab any door frame or table leg they passed to delay the inevitable. He was dragged out of a side door and found himself behind the back of a large white van, which prompted him to struggle even more violently against his captor. Not appreciating the added work to keep him subdued, The Collector promptly turned around and planted a harsh stomp on the boy’s stomach, reducing him to whimpering and clutching his stomach as he tried to curl into as tight a ball as he could. The Collector easily hefted the quivering boy into the already open trunk, shushing him gently as he tucked his legs in and closed the latches to trap him inside.

With his newest victim taken care of, The Collector shut the van’s back doors and climbed into the driver’s seat, driving off into the night towards his demented prison. Crofton let out a sob at feeling the van lurch forward, wishing he would have gone out for that stupid tea any night but this one. He was prepared for a home invasion, but never for this. That’s what you get for thinking you’re safe, I guess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our dear protagonist makes a few stupid, sleep influenced decisions and The Collector becomes curious with him. Also traumatic stuff but who cares about all that lol

Somewhere along the drive Crofton had managed to tire himself out and fall asleep, and was now only partially aware of the sound of the van’s brakes squeaking, as well as the sound of one door closing and two opening much closer to his box. He whined groggily as the trunk was lifted and set to the ground, but after a patient shush made no other noise and instead decided to try and get back to his dream. The small bumps and vibrations of the trunk being dragged along the ground only did more to ease him into a blissfully unaware slumber. After a few more minutes of dragging the trunk was set on its bottom and the top was opened, the light enough to stir him but not make him fully alert as the large silhouette peering down at him blocked most of it.

Two black clad arms reached into the trunk, snaking around his back and pulling him upward until he was against The Collector’s chest, feet barely touching the floor as the killer turned around to set him on the operating table nearby. Crofton’s first instinct, of course, was to snuggle closer to the warm person picking him up, hugging him around the neck and nuzzling under his chin as a breathy purr-like sound escaped him. This caused the killer to pause in surprise, squeezing him tighter by reflex before tilting his head to stare down at his victim in confusion. Very odd behavior indeed, this one would be interesting to toy with.

This did not deter him, however, and after binding Crofton’s legs He pried the arms off easily and secured them with leather cuffs on each side of the table. This raised a few flags in Crofton’s mind, and the more he became aware of his surroundings and memory the faster his heart pumped adrenaline through his bloodstream. Soon enough he was tense and staring at his captor in utter terror, also realizing that in his groggy state he snuggled a sadistic murderer. Despite his limited mobility, he tried to lean as far away from the man as possible, fearing whatever punishment would come from his actions; tears filled his eyes and tiny whimpers spilled out of him as his imagination took over.

Seeing his obvious distress and deciding to take advantage of it, The Collector stalked forward, stopping to lift a scalpel from the metal cart near the table with more emphasis than necessary, soaking in every ounce of fear from his captive with a sick and growing smile. Placing a gentle hand on Crofton’s head, he let it trail down to the boy’s neck, savoring every flinch and squeak from just that much attention; he let his hand tighten until the boy was gasping for breath, his panicked eye locked on The Collector’s while he struggled in the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. Gripping tighter momentarily, The Collector dragged the scalped own his arm and pressed it into his lower forearm as a warning, he’d be no good as part of the Collection if he couldn’t follow instructions. This was a test to see if the boy could be trained.

Understanding the instruction, Crofton stilled as much as he could despite his burning lungs and rising panic. He searched his captor’s eye for any hint or mercy, but only say the unnatural reflection, giving him a soulless, almost bug-like gaze.

‘That’s one thing they got wrong on the police sketch,’ he thought to himself as he started to zone out while keeping his gaze locked, everything in his peripheral vision reducing to static. ‘The eyes, they look too human on paper.’ As the world continued to melt away around him, Crofton calmed down and took shallow breaths to preserve the little oxygen he could take in. This was a bit of a surprise to The Collector, the boy’s pupils had dilated even further which made him look like he had been drugged; he also found it rather cute that he shut down so quickly and let his body take control, less thinking meant more honest reactions. He tilted his head in consideration, deciding to snap him out of his trance with a little help from one of his other specimen: one of the bullet ants he had collected and took great joy in using.

After zipping down the red, military like hoodie, The Collector lifted the boy’s shirt to expose his stomach and placed a hand on it to catch his attention. Crofton’s head snapped up reflexively and he squirmed a bit in discomfort, his body heat increasing on instinct and the small whine of displeasure in his throat increasing in worry at the sight of the insects held in his captor’s other hand. Said captor placed the hand previously on his stomach on his mouth, shushing him quietly before tipping the jar holding the ants slightly and allowing a few to crawl onto the soft flesh. The squirming increased as the ants crawled around, only managing to make them agitated and eventually leading them to sting.

Once the pain registered Crofton threw back his head and arched his back, his screaming muffled by The Collector’s hand and his limbs thrashing wildly in their restraints. Tears fell from his eyes and in between screams his body was wracked with sobs, barely giving him time to breath as his nerves felt like they were being set on fire over and over again from the tiny creatures. The Collector watched on in amusement as he kept his gloved hand tightly clamped over his victim’s mouth, savoring the pitiful sobs. He found he was liking this captive more and more; most others tried to fight back and bear whatever pain he gave them, but this one just mewled and cried much to his enjoyment. He could definitely see himself keeping this one around, as long as he was good.

Before long the ants were put back in with the rest of the farm and Crofton let a relieved sob escape as his head fell to the side, the hand having left his mouth while The Collector left to retrieve something else. His breathing came in rapid gasps, each movement of his chest making his abdomen flare in pain but no lungful feeling like enough. A startled gasp was quickly followed by another soft sob as a cool ointment was smoothed over the stings and a gloved hand pet his tear-stained face. His legs and wrists were freed soon after, and he weakly pushed against The Collector’s chest as He tried to pick him up, which only earned him a punch to the face and made his already blurry vision swim.

He was lifted with little trouble after that, and the combination of being moved, his still swimming vision and the metallic taste of his blood in his mouth only adding to his nausea to the point that he was barely aware of the sight of his trunk coming into view once again. Once his mind processed the cramped box he reluctantly curled closer the man carrying him, his fear of being alone in the tight space almost drowning out his disgust but he knew what he had to do to survive; he’d have no hope fighting against this monster, but he could try to appeal to Him and gain his trust. He grabbed the front of His sweater gently and pleaded with him in a soft voice, burying his head into the fabric and whimpering pathetically. He felt the man stop moving and knew He would be looking down at him, so did his best to looks as small and submissive as possible.

Crofton was still placed in the box but he didn’t put up a fight, crying softly despite himself and burying his face in his hands as he began to tremble. The Collector’s hand once again rested atop his head, petting him as if he were a pet as he shook and wept. Soon enough the hand retreated and the lid was closed, the latches locking into place and the trunk hoisted up so it was sitting vertically on the floor. There was a small hole in one of the corners that Crofton could peer out of, and it gave him a view of the table he was just on as well as a glass cabinet full of various jars of insects medical supplies, and unknown chemicals. He heard a door behind him close and lock, and decided to rest and hope that when he wakes up he’ll be in bed and this all turned out to be one crazy, painfully real dream.

His nap was short and rough, and when he woke up he felt even more exhausted than when he went to sleep. There was a sudden scream and Crofton jolted in surprise, knocking his head against the back of the trunk and causing him to yelp. He spied through the small hole in his trunk and saw a half naked man being wheeled up on the same table he had been strapped to, thrashing violently and already bleeding in a few places. He kept yelling profanities and gibberish at Him and eventually Crofton had to cover his ears, they had always been rather sensitive and the screaming caused them to start ringing. It seems He didn’t appreciate the noise much either because he tightly gripped the man’s head and began sewing his mouth closed, making the screams raise an octave until they were muffled by his lips and became pained and rapid breathes. Crofton cringed for the man but he couldn’t look away, even when He presented a serrated saw that made his skin crawl.

He tore his eyes away, however, when the ridged blade slid into the struggling man, squeezing his eyes shut to avoid witnessing the frantic twitches as the man jerked away from Him while blood cascaded from his abdomen. Crofton had watched a lot of horror movies, he loved them even, but his was different; the agony was completely genuine, the fear was raw, not practiced. He heard the sound of metal objects clinking against each other a few times and assumed his captor was changing tools, pressing his hands over his ears once the other man started screaming differently and confirmed his suspicions. He didn’t know when he started to cry, but he didn’t have the strength to try and stop the warm tears slipping through his clenched eyes.

After what seemed like hours of the torturous screaming everything fell silent, and the only sounds in the room now were Crofton’s hiccups and sniffles, and a low, even breathing. He slowly lowered his hands from his ears and instead chose to hug his legs, rocking back and forth and putting his head to his knees to muffle his weeping. He didn’t want to pay attention to the sound of a corpse being dragged across the floor, god he didn’t want to hear anything right now, but there wasn’t anything else to listen to. That sound ended and he heard heavy footsteps approach his trunk, he curled up tighter and couldn’t suppress the whimpers that spilled from his shaking form. He gave a small shriek in response to the swift kick delivered to the lid, but quickly clamped his hands over his mouth and tried desperately to calm his pounding heart; the last thing he wanted to do was direct the psycho’s wrath towards himself by acting out.

After hearing Him storm away and lock the door he exited through, Crofton tried to calm down from his panic attack, once again rocking back and forth and remembering little tunes from his childhood that would calm him down after a nightmare. He flinched at every tiny noise, and swore that He would be able to see the trunk shaking he was trembling so bad. But after a while he found he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and despite his best efforts the darkness at the corners of his eyes spread until he was passed out against the side his trunk, his only safe place in this hell hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things r about to get WORSE


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuckadoo i'm sorry that i died for like a month, IT and bill skarsgard overtook my life and plus school work and blah blah blah all that excuse jazz, so to make up for it this chapter is a bit longer than normal. speaking of IT i'm writing something with that AND something for my friend which has also been taking up time, but i'll still try to be a little more frequent with updates if i can. yeah so just a little update and a reminder that i fucking love the collector, that boy can fuck this boy up any day (please don't i'm a huge baby)

Crofton awoke when he heard a door creak open, his eyes snapping open and his breath hitching in both fear and the tiniest sliver of hope that it was someone who could help him escape. He peered through the tiny hole in his trunk to try and see the visitor, but they were out of his line of vision and he couldn’t hear any signs of movement. He shifted and chewed his lip nervously, restless and having a harder and harder time ignoring the feeling of dread in his gut. He was just scared, it could still be an ally, it was just the stings acting up. He had found out during the night that He had put some sort of medication on the stings, making them far less inflamed and confusing the boy with the act of needless mercy.

“He….. Hello?” he squeaked out into the tense silence finally, hoping to alert the person that he was there and hoping that he’d be let out. After receiving no answer, he decided to try and continue the conversation and convince this person that he could be trusted, “P-please, I’m friendly. I won’t hurt you, I promise, just please let me out.” He couldn’t help the quiver that crept into his voice, his conflicting emotions not helping his already his weakened resolve in the slightest. He pressed his face to the peep-hole, trying to see if there even was anyone in the room with him.

A very familiar, pitch black iris suddenly flashed right in front of where he was looking, causing Crofton to jerk away and slam his head into the opposite side of the trunk with a strangled scream. He gasped at the shock and slapped his hands over his eyes as a violent shiver travelled up his spine; it was a childhood habit he had whenever he saw something scary, and the shiver was enough to make his entire body painfully tense with fight or flight reflexes. Meek but hurried apologies spilled from his mouth has he kept his eyes tightly shut behind his hands, already feeling the familiar sting of tears threatening to slip past his eyelids but not wanting to break down so soon, as he wouldn’t be able to survive a week in this hell if he fell apart at every fright. This thought, however, was quickly abandoned as he heard the sound of the latches on his trunk being undone, his blood running ice cold as he stared at the opening lid through his fingers.

All he could see were the legs, but that’s all Crofton needed to almost have a heart attack in fearful anticipation, all previous thoughts of wanting to leave his trunk immediately discarded as he pushed against the back of it as hard as he could to get further away from Him. He turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut again, this time laying his palms flat against the solid wood interior of his trunk and hoping he could disappear into it and forget this nightmare ever existed. Maybe if he thought hard enough he’d blend in with the wood and The Collector would forget he was there. Either way, the more distance and doors between them the better, so Crofton would take what he could get.

His head snapped forward at the sharp whistle, however, and he felt sick at how easily this monster could grab his attention, as if he were a dog (lmao don’t look now, me). That feeling of sickness only increased when he saw His gloved hand come down to point in front of his feet, conveying what he wanted Crofton to do without having to say a word. Fearing what would happen if he disobeyed, he slowly leaned away from the back of the trunk and placed his knees on the hard ground, followed shortly by his hands. He crept out painfully slow, keeping as low to the ground as he could and keeping his eyes locked on the black work boots gradually growing closer.

Upon reaching his destination Crofton curled up completely, tucking his legs and arms underneath himself and resting his forehead against the cool concrete floor. He heard the sound of fabric shifting and assumed He was getting closer, but he focused on his breathing and managed to only shiver slightly at the eyes he felt trained on him. He couldn’t hide his flinch when a hand rest on his head, and squeaked pathetically as it stroked down to his neck before gripping it gently and guiding his head to meet the eye’s of his captor. Said man released his hold on the boy’s neck, taking his wrists instead with one hand and reaching behind him with the other. 

Once he saw the handcuffs Crofton pulled at The Collector’s grip unconsciously as he tried to tuck his arms back towards his own body, however a sharp look and a tug got him to give up this attempt. He watched helplessly as the metal cuffs were snapped around his wrists, clicking to fit snugly around them and giving him a few inches of freedom between each hand. Next, a long and thin chain was clipped to the middle link of the cuffs and He tightly grasped the end of it, the sharp tug causing his victim to stumble forward and land on his stomach. He let out a grunt of pain when his chin bounced on the hard floor, looking up at Him to try and find any kind of reasoning behind doing that other than just being a sadist and an asshole. (had to be said.)

He only got a mocking smile in return, as well as his captor quickly swiping his index finger upwards, ordering him to his feet. Crofton chose a very poor time to notice the incredible pain in his legs as a result of being folded for so long, and found that he couldn’t stand with his legs straight without experiencing terrible pain in the backs of his knees. The Collector didn’t seem to mind this inconvenience, however, and only tugged him along as he approached a black door and grasped one of the many keys on his belt while his victim stumbled along behind him. They entered a dimly lit hallway with splintered wooden floors and walls riddled with holes, the flickering yellow light making it nearly impossible to see the multiple tripwires set up throughout the length of it.

He knew, however, and had no trouble stepping over the invisible triggers without so much as a glance as Crofton tried not to set off every possible death in their short walk. That wasn’t the only obstacle though, as Crofton soon found out the hard way that along with intentional rigged blades there were also rusted nails and broken glass scattered on the floor, one of those nails sinking into his foot and causing him to yelp and trip over a wire. His stumble opened a trapdoor with spikes at the bottom directly where he had been standing, but before his flesh could touch the spikes The Collector grabbed more of the chain and pulled it upwards, heaving the boy’s upper half back over the ledge. His wrists pulled painfully in the handcuffs and his stomach throbbed in pain from all of the bumps on his still healing stings, but at the moment the only pain he was concerned with was the rusted nail lodged in his heel that sent a jolt up his entire right leg at the slightest movement.

Crofton used his left leg to drag himself onto the floor the rest of the way, rolling onto his back and squinting into one of the yellow light bulbs as he hissed through his teeth in sharp pants. After a few seconds he sat up and glanced warily towards The Collector, before his gaze was occupied by the small but growing pool of blood at his punctured foot. He pulled his leg closer, biting his lip to stop the whimpers that fought to be heard as he checked the extent of the damage. He palled at seeing it about half way submerged in his flesh, dark blood oozing out at a steady pace onto the decrepit floors and slipping into the many cracks. 

The Collector watched his captive inspect his wound with slight curiosity, wondering what the boy would do or if he’d rely on him for help. His curiosity turned into amusement at the sight of his hostage trying to grasp the end of the nail without causing himself too much pain, it seemed he thought he was going to pull it out. A deliciously terrible idea crossed His mind, and before Crofton could yank the nail out he was lifted into His arms; he squeaked in alarm at the sudden movement and his arms instinctively grasping His shoulder for stability. Malicious joy stirred and flooded The Collector’s mind as he continued his brisk pace to a specially chosen room for his newest pet.

Crofton was set down before a door, although He still kept a firm hand around his waist to keep him standing while the right key was found. The boy kept his injured foot hovering just above the ground, casting a weary look to the taller man and then the door as he placed a nervous hand over the one supporting him; if he didn’t think about who the hand belonged to it was almost comforting. He ignored the momentary hesitation in His movements, keeping his eyes glued to the floor and thankfully beginning to zone out again. Maybe if he went far enough into his own mind he would never come back out, wishful thinking as it was.

His plan worked for a few seconds, and he followed mechanically as he was lead into a room, his eyes lost in the blur of the wood below him going by. Crofton tried to keep it up but his curiosity got to him and he had to take a look around this new room. As his eyes swept the room a black hand rushed at and grabbed his face, obstructing his vision and causing him to scream in surprise and panic. The Collector then slammed Crofton’s head on to the edge of the old bed, forcing the rest of his body to smack against the hard floor as his legs kicked and scrambled on instinct. He gripped His wrist and silently pleaded that this would be over soon, that he could just be left alone.

He felt a rough material slide around his neck and his panic increased, a new wave of energy rushing over him along with the fear of impending asphyxiation. His voice came out between ragged breaths, fearful squeaks whimpered out unconsciously as his eyes remained clenched shut and his struggle proved to be practically useless because of how much he was trembling. He heard a soft click and felt two cold prongs dig into the side of his neck, his hands flying to inspect the object around his throat and immediately curling into himself as soon as He stepped away. It seemed to be a hard metal ring covered in worn leather with what felt like a large box in the same area as the prongs pushing on his skin. 

Crofton kept his head down as his hands continued feeling the ring placed on him, but threw his eyes upwards in confusion towards The Collector. He was met with the sight of a small remote in His grip, and the sickening smile made it all too clear to him just what this new object was: a shock collar. He stared straight ahead in shock (lol), the sounds of his own screams echoing in his head and growing louder and louder with every new twisted scenario he unwillingly imagined. Scenarios of him convulsing on the ground, foaming at the mouth or spasming inside tubs of water with no escape raced through his subconscious in time with his rapid heart rate.

Another sharp whistle brought his concentration back to the sadist before him, flinching at the shrill sound and hugging himself as he once more met the eyes of his captor. Once He had his attention, He leaned down slightly and pat his knee as if he were beckoning a dog to come. It didn’t take much for Crofton to get the message, but his fear was physically stopping him from getting any closer to the psychopath. His motor skills were shutting down, his body finally reaching its breaking point for operating under extreme stress. The Collector noticed his dilemma, and wasted no time in testing his equipment out on the boy.

Electric fire erupted in his neck and travelled all throughout Crofton’s body, his veins searing with pain as the collar delivered a voltage too high to be used on any creature with a clear conscience. He was quickly cured of his previously frozen state, his body lurching forward and his and palms slamming on the ground as his muscles tensed painfully to the jolt. A scream ripped from his throat which eventually died down to grunts and the occasional whimper. After a few seconds his elbows buckled and he brought his forehead to rest on the cool ground.

The whistle came again, and this time he only tilted his head enough to see the gesture being repeated in his peripheral vision. He knew better than to disobey again, although his limbs trembled violently each time they were lifted; either he followed His commands or he was punished again. The decision wasn’t a very hard one, and after a few moments of all but dragging himself those few feet he saw the black boots of his captor and kneeled with his palms pressed firmly to the floor and his head lowered. He curled his fingers into a fist when he couldn’t handle how badly his hands were shaking anymore, although that didn’t stop the shudder in his shoulders each time he took a breath.

He bit his lip to try and stop himself from screaming again when His hand came to rest on the nape of his neck, instead uttering a long, shaky whimper while fresh tears gathered at the bottom of his eyes. He watched, eyes wide with terror, at the salt water darkening the rough concrete in tiny drops, too afraid of what He would do while his prey was blind to close them despite the sting of crying. Another drawn out hush made Crofton release a shaky breath, the ghost of a scream in his exhale as the hand pet down the length of his spine; his back arched in a vain attempt to get away from the seemingly harmless gesture and that’s when he noticed that He was now crouched in front of him.

The hand left the base of his spine and instead rest on the side of his head, tousling his hair like one would if they were congratulating a pet on a job well done. Crofton’s head tilted in the other direction slightly but halted as He suddenly gripped his hair and forced him back to where he originally was. Once He was sure his victim wouldn’t act out again, He lowered his hand to the collar, inspecting the battery holder and then the locking mechanism on the latches. It was a standard shock collar for dogs that he had modified to lock automatically and give a zap at the first sign of tampering; a pretty good alteration, in his opinion. After he had finished admiring his handiwork, The Collector took into consideration the quivering state of his pet and lowered the collar’s voltage to a 3, showing it to the boy before standing back up and leaving the room to attend to other matters and people.

Once he heard the lock- correction, locks- click, Crofton finally allowed a sob to escape from him, which was quickly followed by another and another until he was weeping on the floor of his new room. In the midst of his crying he lifted a hand to once again feel the collar around his aching neck, trying to find any way to loosen it or get it off and only crying harder when he found none. He remembered the bed he saw earlier and slowly crawled to it, dread weighing heavy on his body and the emotional and physical drain of that experience making mounting the stiff mattress feel like climbing a mountain. As he finally hefted his body completely onto the bed, he curled onto his side and covered his hands to his face, eventually crying himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man my family would be even more ashamed of me than they already are if they saw this "0w0


	4. Update

Quick update: Next chapter is coming along well, i downloaded google docs on my phone so i can work on it off of my computer. Got some more shockies, some after care and I'm planning on a little “training" time vwv Also, I have truly lived up to my username by making fan art of my own godam story:

https://your-friendly-anon.tumblr.com/ 

That is all for now, thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh sweet jesus christ i havent uploaded this shit in quite a while huh  
> well, i have literally no excuse lmao im just a lazy piece of shit and i forgot about it  
> in other news i have a boyfriend now! it's pretty sweet, he's really hot o//v//o  
> anyways im super sorry, thanks for all the hits and stuff, here's ur trash and im gonna write more lol

Crofton didn’t get peace for very long, and after a few minutes of being left alone He opened the door again, this time with medical supplies. It wasn’t much, tweezers, peroxide, and a roll of gauze, but his approach was loud enough to wake the boy and His presence alone made him start to tremble all over again. The Collector, with great satisfaction, had anticipated this kind of reaction, but made no attempts to try and coax the boy into cooperation. He simply kneeled on the bed with his supplies as his victim tried to scramble away, grabbing him by his injured ankle and revelling in the pitiful yelp that sounded as he was pulled closer. 

Pressing his knee against his victim’s thigh, The Collector held the boy's injured leg down by the ankle and grasped the nail with his tweezers before he began to pull it out. The shocks of pain traveling up his leg that followed made Crofton gasp and yelp, and despite his previous warning he tried to wiggle out of His grip. Not interested in wasting any more time, The Collector placed the tweezers down and grabbed the small remote, turning the volts up to 3 out of ten and pressed the button. Crofton’s body twitched and jerked as he felt his nerves being fried, his breathing choked and sporadic as grunts and gurgles were the only noises he could manage to make; he was in too much pain to properly scream.

After about ten seconds The Collector took his finger off the button, and right away his captive’s body flopped down, remaining perfectly still save for the occasional twitch. He hummed in satisfaction and repositioned the tweezers to remove the nail, loosening his grip on Crofton’s ankle. He purposefully drew out removing it, gazing lovingly at the way the pale skin wept beautiful ruby streams, and finding satisfaction in his complete submission. Once the nail was out He poured peroxide on some of the gauze and pressed it to the wound, almost having to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the tiny, pathetic sob that came from behind him. But he was being so good and trying so hard to keep quiet, He felt he had to reward the boy once he was done.

He usually wouldn't go this far for a regular captive, but Crofton had proven to be very entertaining so far. The boy did little to hide his terror and was easily to coerced, and even when he did struggle it was just weak enough to be cute. Plus the sudden instances of affection he had shown were confusing and refreshing at the same time, a pleasant surprise and a new challenge He was more than happy to take on. The Collector planned on doing a little research on him once he got home, but the information in his wallet already gave Him a good idea of what his new pet was like; he had looked through it when he took his jacket after using the bullet ants.

Name: Crofton McDonnovan, Sex: Male, Age: 19. He was smiling brightly in the photo, and after comparing the year the ID was made to the current year The Collector calculated that he was now 22. He placed the ID aside, and behind it he found a credit card and a picture of a small orange cat; it had stripes, curious green eyes, and ears that looked shriveled perhaps from an infection. Upon turning the picture over saw the words ‘Butterscotch, 04’ written with care, the animal obviously meaning a lot to the boy. He placed both aside and moved to the second pocket, finding a membership card for a library that was very worn on one side from being swiped so much, revealing a passion for books which could mean a reserved personality. In the third he found a business card for what looked like a cafe at first glance, but upon reading the curvy font through realized it was for a tea shop; it was also worn, having been bent and torn in a few places. That was all there was besides some paper bills, so He returned the contents how he had found them before placing the wallet in a drawer with many others and locked it. 

Now The Collector would have the opportunity to learn more personal things about Crofton, things like what would make him squeal and tremble, and what would be most effective in breaking him. He grew excited at the thought of the boy mewling and whimpering like a caged animal, which he technically was, and ended up wrapping said boy's foot a bit too tight. He didn't fix it though, it wasn't by much and that would just make it more secure, however he did give the heel a little pat and his shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter when his captive jolted beneath him, still not making a peep. He remembered his intention to reward his silence, and, after getting up’ whistled again to draw the boy’s attention before tossing a half empty water bottle onto the bed next to him and shutting the door.

Crofton’s limbs felt like lead. The shock left his muscles sore and unresponsive, and for a few seconds he was worried there was internal damage. He'd have to find out later once he could move besides sluggishly blinking his eyes as he tried to stay conscious. Really he wanted nothing more than to just fall asleep and stop feeling this pain, but he didn't want Him to have that advantage to in such a compromising position. And so he stayed awake, every once in a while trying to see if he could lift his arm without it shaking and burning.

For a few seconds he didn't notice the twinges in his foot, just one more ache in his already overwhelmed body. But once he heard the sound of metal scraping metal and focused on the feeling, realization and confusion dawned on him. At first he was confused, ‘Why is He still helping, I thought he wanted me to be hurt?’ But then he thought bitterly on how He must not want him to die too fast, wants to make Crofton suffer for as long as possible. The frustration and terror of his situation made him want to cry and tear the whole nightmarish building apart, but his muscles weren’t completely righted yet and He was still securely straddling his leg, leaving Crofton to shakily drape his arms over his head as a pathetic attempt at protection and privacy.

It didn’t take much longer after that for The Collector to finish, and the shift of weight on the rickety old bed signaled his departure from the boy’s personal space. Crofton allowed himself to take breath, his exhale shaky and barely a whimper from trying to keep his voice under control. His arms tensed and he barely held back a shudder at the sharp whistle meant to draw his attention, and he barely glanced through his arms as he saw a water bottle soar through the still small distance and land somewhere beyond his peripheral. His gaze shot back up to Him, eyes wider this time, as the door was shut and locked, the sturdy wood creaking on rusty hinges.

Half a moment later he was lifting himself and reaching for the water, movements jerky and fingers fumbling to find a grip on the flimsy plastic. Once he had it firmly in his hand he ripped the cap open, chugging a third of it before he had to break and breathe; he had never like the taste of bottled water and would use his own filter any chance he got, but he wouldn't be picky when his survival was on the line. He pressed the back of his hand on his mouth, still holding the water bottle, to keep himself from gagging at such a sudden intake of water and at how sick this whole situation was. He had to do something, he had to escape.

He sipped the water slowly and sat so that is uninjured foot rested on the floor off the side of the bed, calming his mind and beginning to plan. He knew virtually nothing about the layout of the building other than that examination room and the hallway he was lead through (and the room he was currently in). Figuring out the inside of the building would only be the first part, he’d also have to try and memorize the traps that were guaranteed to be anywhere and everywhere, and then he would be able to think of a way to get out. Crofton felt panic seeping into his mind as he thought, the ideas of countless gruesome deaths and, worse, being caught made him start to reconsider trying to get out; suicide was always an option. But he shook his head violently, resting a cool hand against his cheek and remembering his reason: He had to live long enough to see Him get caught, he had to see that monster crumble. His previous fear was replaced with anger and determination, the plastic bottle crinkling in his tightening grip as he thought of all the people he had seen on the news who had suffered by his hand. Those men, women, and children will be avenged if it’s the last thing he did.

Maybe he could find another survivor, someone who’s been there longer and knew the grounds. He had heard other screams, so all he had to do was find a way to get into contact with the people behind the voices. Crofton then began to consider how he could draw His attention away long enough to give him time to escape. He ran his fingers along the coarse fabric of his collar and reminded himself that he’d need to find a way to get the remote away from him as well. There were so many variables to his plan and so many ways that it could go horribly wrong, but he steeled himself and thought again about the benefits and the ways it could go right; escape plans aren’t made over night, and right now being an optimist was his best chance at staying sane.

Crofton turned his attention to the room he was in, eyes darting to every corner to see if there was any was to slip out (there was a small hole at the bottom of the wall near the bed that was too small for a person to fit through, but could perhaps be used to store something smaller) when they landed on a camera. It was nothing more than a small black box with a lense mounted to the top left corner of the room, but suddenly a small red light came on and the lense whirred and focused. Crofton quickly tilted his head to look at the cracks in the floor instead, hoping to seem oblivious to the camera’s presence to give him any kind of advantage. He thought of a way to reinforce this and simultaneously gain some of His favor: a pathetic attempt at walking that would no doubt cause him unnecessary pain. He sighed deeply and again thought of the benefits of doing this, before he began to act out the human equivalent of a stupid, injured rabbit. 

He started by moving into a sitting position that would allow him easy departure from the rickety bed and gave his heel a once-over, wincing and biting his knuckle when he applied too much pressure. He slowly slid it off of the bed and rest his forefoot on the ground, keeping the heel a few centimeters in the air. He noticed the red light still shining in his peripheral vision, and counted it as an accomplishment even though he was dreading what he’d have to do next. Crofton had His attention, and now he would convince him he was utterly helpless.

With a little boost from his arms he was able to shakily stand, keeping most of his weight on his uninjured foot and biting his tongue at the pain of the blood pulsing through his elevated heel. Resting his hand against the wall for support he slowly took a step, barely letting more than his toes touch the floor and more so hopping forward than taking a step. This continued a few more times, each one putting a little more pressure on his foot, until he started to take his fifth step and he heard the camera refocus itself. Another shock pulsed through his body suddenly, his body tensing suddenly and causing his injured heel to slam into the ground, a scream ripping itself from his throat upon impact. As soon as it arrived it was gone, leaving Crofton to fall to his knees unceremoniously and pant at the shock and now 5 times worse pain.

The sound of the camera whirring barely registered to him, and after a few seconds he directed his eyes upwards, not caring to hide it. The camera was turned off, most likely switched to another room, and he let his head hang and then press against the cool floor. He contemplated trying to climb onto the rough bed before deciding that it wasn’t worth the little energy he had, so he just dropped to his side next to it and tried his best to get some rest. He curled into himself to try and save warmth, doing what he could to ignore the ever present prongs pushing at the flesh on his throat. He laid awake for house until sleep finally took him once again, promising sweet oblivion from this nightmare he was ensnared in.

**Author's Note:**

> Blease don't tell my mom.


End file.
